


Muse

by Fallen_King



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Absolute fluff, Hurt Jaskier, M/M, Soft Geralt, geralt just wants jaskier to shut up and go to sleep, jaskier needs a new muse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24448339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallen_King/pseuds/Fallen_King
Summary: Jaskier is without a muse- and Geralt is tired of his endless talking.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 98





	Muse

It is no secret that Jaskier is well versed in the art of holding a one-sided conversation. Some might even call it a talent; a talent which he so exuberantly had been perfecting for the past two hours. From the moment they lay the body of a particularly large kikimore across the doorstep of a particularly rude and cocky payer, Jaskier had begun his monologue. His voice trailed Geralt to the nearest tavern, never once ceasing. Perhaps it was the hunt that had set him on edge, for despite his distance he had sustained a number of minor wounds- the worst of which he had managed to hide from Geralt. The lingering anxiety still sludged through his veins, the heat of pain radiating from his surely bruised ribs. It was adrenaline for the flurry of words that Geralt tried so desperately to tune out. After a few too many drinks, none of which cured his verbose plague, Geralt turned to the bard beside him.

“I am going to bathe,” he grumbled, standing briskly and trudging towards the nearby stairs. Jaskier did not get the hint, perking up and quickly following.

And now, as Geralt sits in the warm waters, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, Jaskier sweeps around the room. His current topic of choice is the lack of love in his life and the wistful memories of his last affair.

“My lips have been so lonely, missing the supple embrace of another’s kiss,” he mourns, fingers tracing the various bottles of oil and scented minerals. Geralt lets his hand fall into the waters, a subtle exasperation reflecting in his expression. Jaskier twirls around, falling quiet for the first time in what feels like an eternity. But it does not last.

“I have fallen into such tragedy,” he states as he walks along the side of the tub, waving a hairbrush dramatically through the air. “My latest ballad, halted.” He hums it’s tune quite loudly, falling heavily onto the step surrounding the bath. Geralt feels a gentle tug on the back of his hair.

“Though I suppose I could begin-“ he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, “ah, no nevermind.” Geralt hears him shifting, then the brush in his hair gone and Jaskier is once again pacing the room.

“Oh to be without a muse.” His voice is wistful, but nonetheless he continues raving. Geralt, weary from days of sleepless travel, a difficult hunt, and the fright from Jaskier being thrown across the woods, grinds his teeth. Between the mixture of scents on the table to Jaskier’s non-stop chittering and the overbearing celebration roaring downstairs, he finds his mind racing and an overwhelming knot bubbling from his chest.

“Jaskier!” He cannot stop the anger that seethes off of his tongue.

“Geralt.” Jaskier responds, hands flourishing to his hips and an eyebrow raising in question to his tone.

“Can you please shut up.” His fingers grip the sides of the tub, body tense.

“Please,” Jaskier repeats, sauntering over slowly, “oh Geralt, I did not know such niceties existed within your vocabulary.” He pauses beside the other man, holding eye contact. Geralt’s eyes narrow, and the two maintain a quiet standoff. The most infuriating smugness has crept its way onto Jaskier’s face. The corners of his lips twitch upwards.

“Now Gera-“ His words are swiftly cut off by a hand that curls in his tunic and lips that muffle his voice. Geralt is pulling him down, smashing their lips together as Jaskier is thrown off balance. He tumbles towards the warmth, one hand gripping at Geralt’s shoulder while the other slips beneath the water. His hip hits the side of the tub: another bruise to add to the ever growing list. But Geralt’s lips are soft, still lingering with the afterthought of pisspoor ale. His grip loosens on Jaskier’s tunic, his other hand combing through his short hair. Jaskier’s fingers tingle against the warmth of Geralt’s shoulder, his body sliding closer to the flower petal water. Geralt nips lightly at Jaskier’s bottom lip, and Jaskier finds that he has forgotten how to breathe. He exhales as Geralt writhes against him, pulling him closer. The water soaks his clothes, but he barely seems to notice. His lips part hesitantly as Geralt sighs against his mouth. It is soft and it is lovely- and Jaskier is melting, his legs over the side of the tub as the rest of him is submerged.

Nimble fingers tug gently at Jaskier’s jacket, as if questioning for approval. Jaskier has become a trembling puddle, dripping with lo-

Geralt pauses. His eyes blink open and meet curious blue. Jaskier’s lip is throbbing. He drags his hand from Geralt’s shoulder and presses it against his mouth. It’s surface is slick with blood. Geralt has no time to revel in the silence.

“Not only did you just completely soak my clothes, but you make my lip bleed too,” Jaskier teases, feigning a pout. “However shall you make it up to me?” Geralt lets out a low rumble, moving his hand to Jaskier’s sides (as if to lift, hopefully not throw, him from the water), but stops upon the involuntary wince that comes from him. His silent questioning causes Jaskier to look away.

“I’m fine,” he states with none of his usual regale. He barely has time to protest before Geralt has removed his open doublet and is tugging off his shirt.

“Not in- the... tub...” he stutters to no avail. He releases a huff and lets his body untwist, leaning back against the side of the tub and glancing sideways at Geralt. The bruise encompassing almost his entire left side is a deep reddish purple, covered with spots of popped blood vessels. Geralt’s eyes are wide as he looks up from the tender skin.

“Really, it isn’t as bad as it looks, I can barely even feel it.” He lies through his teeth, acting as if the mere brush of the water doesn’t send pulses of pain through his stomach and back. Geralt’s silence is somehow worse than anything he could say. With a carefulness that Jaskier had not thought possible, Geralt lifts him from the tub, stepping out himself.

“There are spare clothes in the room,” he mutters, “go change, leave the shirt.” Jaskier simply nods, feeling as if a child caught stealing. He whisks from the room, walking briskly to their shared bedroom. While Jaskier removes his dripping pants, Geralt dries and dresses in the other room.

Jaskier has settled onto the bed, legs dangling off and lute in hand when Geralt stalks in. He continues plucking his way through chords. Neither of them exchange words as Geralt moves to a pouch resting by his armor. He tosses the cloth bag beside Jaskier, standing in front of him with a small jar.

“Healing salve,” he mumbles, holding it out.

“Thank you.” Jaskier takes the glass, setting down his lute. He loosely inspects the salve, closing his fist around it. “Would you.. help me with this?” Geralt hesitates, but nods slightly and takes a seat on the bed. Jaskier pulls his legs up, laying his right side across Geralt’s thighs. One arm stretches out, while his left remains tucked up by his body. He smiles, almost shyly, up at his Witcher, who promptly rolls his eyes.

Jaskier’s fingers curl into the bed cloth, his lungs rapidly filling with air at the slight touch to his skin. Tension fills his jaw as Geralt’s calloused hands smooth over his damaged side. He lets out a hiss of breath, nose scrunching in pain.

“Your hands are surprisingly warm,” he comments- to which Geralt responds with a quiet,

“Hm.” Soon followed up by, “done.”

Absentmindedly his hand rests upon Jaskier’s hip as he waits for him to sit up. But Jaskier makes no move, instead flicking his eyes to Geralt with a mischievous glint.

“Better watch where those hands go.” He offers a wink. Geralt meets him with an unwavering stare.

“Sleep.”

In true dramatic fashion, Jaskier throws his arms up, shifting onto his back despite the tinge of pain it causes.

“You’re going to send me off to bed without so much as a goodnight kiss.” He pouts. Although his look is withering, Geralt pulls Jaskier up and swiftly rolls him to the pillows. His arms rest on either side of the blinking bard, who effortlessly regains his composure. Jaskier reaches for the front of his shirt, stopping Geralt from getting up.

“You should stay,” he murmurs, so quiet compared to his usual self. Though they had shared a bed plenty of times before, this is different. Geralt hesitates, eyes flicking away.

“Fine,” he agrees, falling onto his back as Jaskier lets the worn fabric slip through his fingers. He blows out the candle at the bedside and feels Jaskier worm his way closer.

“You’re warm,” he whispers as their bodies touch. Geralt simply snorts, facing Jaskier as he allows his arm to drape across the others shoulders- mindful of the bruising.

“Sleep,” Geralt grumbles back, leaning to place a sweet kiss upon Jaskier’s lips.


End file.
